On the Brink of Revolution
by arrows-and-roses
Summary: There are steps to create a revolution, whether they're original or unplanned. Bane seeks more than a takeover of Gotham, and when an unexpected kidnapping alters his plan, he realises that conforming another mind to his whim will take a bit of extra work. Bane x OC
1. Chapter 1: Paranoia's Victory

**Title**: On the Brink of Revolution

**Rating:** M

**Pairing:** Bane/OC

**Summary:** There are steps to create a revolution, whether they're original or unplanned. Bane seeks more than a takeover of Gotham, and when an unexpected kidnapping alters his plan, he realises that conforming another mind to his whim will take a bit of extra work. [Bane x OC]

**Warnings: **Graphic violence, sexual themes, rape, drug abuse and/or references, strong language, and spoilers of Dark Knight Rises. _Read at your own discretion_.

**Disclaimer:** Original concept, storyline, characters, and places are owned and created by DC Comics and its affiliates. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter One: Paranoia's Victory

Forfeiting sons to a war—that was a draft she thought to have passed long ago. Not because the world was in the prime era of the 21st century, but Gotham City had cleared its battlefields eight years ago; there was no need to cower, no need to bury frightened bodies beneath the coffee table in a hidden outlet, and no need to fear someone's knock on the front door. A smile from a stranger in a coffee shop didn't offer a hidden promise to follow you home, but was just a suggestion of contentment between two beings. The city had reached a peak of peace, a transition of comfort and safety from its previous plateau of hell.

However, Gisel "Meg" Willard was a paranoid person of sorts. Despite her pristine record throughout high school and life, she was always expecting the world to crack at her toes and cast her into the anxious dwellings of hell. The unforeseen death of her parents in the middle of her university career didn't numb her discontentedness, and instead she opted to take on a strict parenting roll for her 14-year-old brother. For the sake of his education, she returned to Gotham City—the violent abode she'd forsaken since she graduated—so as not to interrupt his balance of a social life. After all, the boy needed some semblance of stability, and she transferred to the prestigious faculty of Gotham U.

German roots were something her parents had stressed in her upbringing, and when she vowed to learn the language, it hadn't been with the ease her grandmother assured her would be so natural. She'd completed several college exchanges during her bachelor degree, and immersed herself with German immigrants in the hopes of gaining more thorough knowledge. Her success in the language prompted her for several options, but only one she ended up pursuing: teaching.

"The rest of mom and dad's savings on your lousy teaching degree," Paxton pointed out on the evening before the first day of school. "You're going to be fried in two weeks—tops."

"F-fried?" she asked, unfamiliar with the colloquial use of the word. The kitchen knife she clenched in her hand minced at the green onion beneath it, and once she noted the fineness of its texture, she discarded it into a frying pan. "I'm sure it won't be too bad."

Paxton snorted and pulled out his phone. He pressed one of the many apps filling up his screen and started playing a game. "I have no idea how you got through high school the first time."

"Oh! Mom and dad had me go to a private school. It was quite nice! The other girls and I became quite close!"

"Dyke. Knew it."

She frowned. "That's an incredibly foul pejorative, Pax."

"Pejora— What?"

"Pe… pejorative," she repeated weakly and felt her stomach clench as she watched him grin. "You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

"Sure thing, brainiac. And get used to hearing "pejoratives"; teens are full of 'em," he warned. Glancing at his sister, he noticed her frown, and sat up on the kitchen seat. "Well, they are. Not all kids swear at teachers or anything, but a few of them are pretty crazy. Just don't tell them how to speak."

"As a teacher, I can only hope to educate them, and I'm afraid if they're foolishly adhering to society's ridiculous intent of conformity and prejudices, then I can only hope my influence will inspire them!"

Paxton stared at her hopeful face before finally pushing out the laugh that had paused at his throat. It emerged in short chokes before the fullness of his stomach gushed it out into boisterous heaves. "You're… so… dead."

"Don't say that!" It alarmed her how amusing he interpreted her words, but he had turned his back to her and switched on his phone again. She was unaware that he was documenting her previous conversation to his closest of friends, and so continued preparing supper with troubled thoughts revolving around death. Everything would be fine—at least, that's what an optimist would declare. She hadn't spent the past six years in over-priced tuition to fail as a teacher, but students were people, and people were corrupt. The German language was her ally and history; her cautious enthusiasm could appeal to her students, but if everyone dropped her class and she was fired, she'd have to accept that resolution, too.

She simply didn't take into account that reality is a beast inspired by temptation.

* * *

By the time lunch rolled around the next day, marking the finale of the first day of school, Meg was clenching the edge of her desk as she fought back tears. The day hadn't just "gone bad"—it marked one of the worst. She'd spent two years earning a degree in education, and despite all of this, she'd never encountered such frightful human beings. If they could even define themselves in such a way—she wouldn't be surprised if they were agents of the Devil, sent on a quest to purge her soul.

She paid little attention to the students filing through the halls outside of her classroom door. She'd pulled the curtain down so none of them could see her cry. Instead, she moved herself back into the rolling chair and finally gave permission for the tears to fall. Even if it was only for a minute, she couldn't resist the hopelessness that gnawed through the security she had wrapped around her shoulders that morning. Paxton may have been sarcastic, but he was always receptive to her! His peers, though… he had been right. Teens were not who she had been when she was their age, or even her friends; teens of this time were merciless.

"They can't even say 'how are you' in German!" she sobbed into her hands. Indeed, everything seemed bleak.

"_Wie geht es Ihnen_?"

She glanced up from her seat and raised her hand to conceal her face.

"Oh! Uh, _es geht mir gut_," she replied. She laughed as she tried to remove the traces of tears on her cheeks.

"You don't appear fine," the accented man noted. She retracted her hand to glimpse at him and frowned as she noticed his attire. It wasn't the most appropriate clothing for a teacher, not that she assumed he was one as she hadn't seen him during the staff meeting. If he was a parent, he definitely wasn't the sorts working in an office—his ripped jeans, rumpled jacket spotted with dirt, and mangy brown hair provided her notion that he was a construction worker—or a street urchin.

"I'm sorry, just… chalk dust in my eyes!" she lied. The man frowned as he moved up to her desk.

"But that board… it is white. You use markers."

Her eyes widened as she turned around. It was a whiteboard.

"Oh, I meant fumes! Yes, the fumes of the markers can be quite… smoldering." Her voice appeared to drop with each word as the man approached her. He didn't overwhelm her nose with any repugnant stenches, but her heart seemed to pace faster against her chest with every step that brought him closer.

"You're not very good at lying," he chuckled. His voice was more clear now, his accent almost masked with his clear knowledge of her native language. Slowly, she reached for a tissue perched on the edge of her desk.

"It's just been… a hard day," she admitted.

"Your first day as a teacher?"

"Yes."

He nodded his head, but the increasing pounding of her heart caused her to retreat back until her chair greeted the whiteboard behind her. "Do I… teach a child of yours?"

"No, no. Nothing like that," he told her. "However, I am looking for one of your students. Little, ah, German boy. Fluent, so he may not talk much. Max Schulze."

She recognized the name on her attendance list, but her head was already shaking. "Sorry, I don't recall."

"Yeah?"

She swallowed. "Are you sure this is even the right school? Perhaps you should try—"

"You're clearly stupid, and I'll forgive you for that, because I know how frightful women can be, but I know he's in this school and I need him now."

"…Why don't you check with the office," she suggested as her hands clenched onto one another. "They could probably help you—"

The man sighed and began to unclip the buttons of his jacket. "It must always come down to this."

Her intuition hadn't been false—the paranoia her family had teased was cheering in celebration as her mind grasped onto the danger she was sitting in. It was through unconscious force that she found herself on her feet, and by then, he had pulled out a gun from the restraints of his clothing.

"I can shoot you much faster than you can run."

"Oh, god," she whispered.

"He can't help you right now. But I can—I just want you to find out this boy's address for me. He had to register with one when he enrolled in school. Bring that to me, and I won't come back here." His index finger curved along the sleek metal of the trigger and he flashed a brief smile.

"I'm sure I don't have to explain what I will do to you if you don't."

Her parted lips engulfed dry air as her heart continued to beat in its vigorous fashion. She couldn't even recall the face of the boy, but every conceivable thought in her head told her that it was against all moral code to sacrifice his well-being for her own.

"I've… never been shot before," she thought aloud. The gunman frowned.

"And you choose this of all days to happen? You really are—"

"What do you want with the boy?"

He was surprised by her abrupt question, but he shook off the concern. "That information doesn't concern you."

"Then why is it the only thing I can seem to think of right now?" Her breathing was starting to lace with cries and the whimpering crawling up from her throat only seemed to agitate her assailant.

"Get his address for me, and you'll never have to see me again."

"Or I get it for you, and then I come back and then you decide to shoot me in the ribcage!" Her eyes left the gun as she once again fought at the tears. "I'm dead! Paxton was right—I really am dead!"

"I don't know who Paxton is, but don't think I won't find him if you don't cooperate," he warned. That seemed to halt her distress and her high heels gripped against the linoleum as she processed what he said.

"I can't help you," she whispered. The face of her brother taunted at her thoughts, but she couldn't force her legs to move. She wouldn't retrieve the address of one of her student's for a gunman; she only prayed that, at the very least, the student wasn't one of the monsters that had tormented her earlier.

The man sighed and reached into his pocket. An old flip phone was clutched in his grip as he pulled it out, and after he used his hip to open it, he muttered out the numbers he was dialing—foolishly, he did it German, and she made mental note of it, should she survive her imminent bullet wound.

"She won't tell us—do you just want me to kill her?"

She watched him as he spoke on the phone, and his eyes appeared to be watching out of her second story window. Carefully, she took one step to her right, but immediately, the gun had turned and he was focused on her again.

"Y-Yes, I understand. Sorry for interrupting," he murmured before shutting his phone. "Let's go."

"Go… where?"

"To the office—you're going to find that address for me, or I'm going to kill you and everyone in there."

"Oh, please!" she cried.

But the gunman ignored her as he gripped onto her arm and shoved her in front of him. He placed his gun back in its hidden restraints before leading her before him. There was a smile on his face as he replaced his grip on her wrist to wrap his arm around her waist.

"This can all go smoothly," he assured her. "Just cooperate."

She couldn't see where she was going—the rush of her thoughts enclosed her other senses, and she was unable to feel her legs as they were forced into movement. Max Schulze; what kind of trouble could that boy be in? She couldn't believe this was an ugly custody battle—but Gotham was supposed to have cleared up all of its mobs and most of its gangs. Why was this boy involved with anyone like this?

She felt the handle of the office door before she made the connection she was standing in front of it, and with the urging from the gunman, she opened it and lead him inside. Three secretaries sat behind desks: one on a phone call, another helping a student, and another just going through the computer. She moved over to the youngest—the computer user—and was relieved to note that the man didn't follow her.

"E-Excuse me," she called softly as she moved to her desk. The secretary glanced up at her, and Meg saw her bored expression.

"Yes?"

"I need the physical address of one of my students. Max Schulze."

"Yeah. One minute."

She glanced at her with a raised eyebrow before turning her gaze to the screen. The teacher frowned; she didn't understand her look, but within a minute, she'd found it and written it on a sheet of paper.

"It's only the first day of school—don't go too crazy on the students."

"Thank you." Meg took the sheet and chose to ignore her words; regardless of the situation she was in, it wasn't her business what she required from her students. Still, the tightness in her gut made it difficult to walk as she ventured over to the gunman. He sent her another smile before nodding towards the exit. The two of them were in the hall before he took the piece of paper from her clenched fist.

"That wasn't very difficult, you see," he pointed out to her.

"Why… are you doing this?"

"Because it's just a small step to something greater."

She frowned, but the gunman continued shoving at her lower back.

"I thought… you were going to let me go?"

"You made things complicated. But I can't kill you here."

Her eyelids expanded and the breathlessness seemed to return. She was going to die—he was going to kill her in the back of an alley and probably do the same to the young boy whose life she'd just handed to him on a scrap piece of paper! Perhaps now was the time to run, but as she extended her leg, a violent force collided with the back of her skull, and she couldn't believe the ease that spilled over her body as she flattened over the ground. She could faintly see the gunman's face, heard his muttering as he collected her into his arms, but then there was nothing as she slipped into blackness.


	2. Chapter 2: Chiquilla

**Author's Note: **I… I am overcome with so many feels right now! T_T I never expected this story to pick up so quickly! I'm so grateful for the release of Dark Knight Rises—Bane was such an under-rated villain beforehand, and so many people only knew the Batman and Robin interpretation of his character. Tom Hardy's take on Bane was magnificent, from the way he angled his movements to the wonderful light-heartedness of his voice! I was incredibly enthralled by his performance, while appropriately petrified. xD

I'd like to note that although this story is rated M and will contain very, uh, vivid depictions of violent and sexual themes; I can't post them on . I do have a dA account where everything will remain uncensored, but regretfully, I'll have to skim over certain scenes here. I'll still link, of course. I realise it's inconvenient, but I simply can't risk having this story removed because of something as foolish as rule-breaking. D:

Deviantart: mel-street

Enough from me, though! Thank you DestinyIntertwined, HatefulHeart, LabyrinthFan23, hauntingwolf, unheardCrepitate, skycord1990, TheBrokenHeartedLamb, IronHeaver, PoisonousAngel, Straight Edge Queen, Guest, and Decepticon-silverstreak for the reviews! Now that this is finished I will reply to them personally!

Chapter Two: Chiquilla

It is said that when death arrives to greet you in his arms, there's an ambience of acceptance he emits to deter your refusal. The potency of his will, his command for you to forfeit your longing for life breaks the very meaning of why you should stay; the strength to fight him is rarest amongst souls.

But there is a soft plea, a tender flick to his core that will permit you his undeserving mercy. When fate must intervene because it is not yet time for you to pass on—that is something Death cannot control. He is but a messenger, and you are but a soldier in God's plight of mankind.

"You were supposed to kill her and dispose of the body."

Meg's eyes flickered. She didn't fully open them; no, that would be foolish. Nothing inhibited her limbs as she laid spread out on the floor. The cold concrete beneath her caused the gentle hairs along her skin to prickle in discomfort. She sighed softly; somehow, she had awakened.

"Yes, Bane, but things got complicated. The address she gave me isn't right—Barsad had me check it out!"

"And so now you've brought her here so I may dispose of her in place of your cowardice self."

"No, Bane, I can—"

The gunshot was abrupt; Meg could no longer fake her unconsciousness. She jerked herself until she sat up and stared around the room. It was an open space, reminiscent of the darkness and unkempt nature of a dungeon. Water poured beneath the cemented flooring, evidently built over it, charging into a tunnel that dropped into the unknown. The archways were covered with grime, as were the railings; it took her a moment to understand that she was in the sewers scattered beneath the city.

But the man whose voice had commanded her from her sleep was also in sight, and with slow caution, she turned to face him. His bare back was exposed to her eyes, and she trembled at the sight of the scars that ravished his skin. However, her eyes could only gaze for so long before she took into account the massive size of her captor. Never had she met a man in person whose body overwhelmed the figures of other men standing in the room—and it wasn't just from mass. His posture and the way the men maneuvered away from him, prepared to obey yet cautious of being within reach, only drove that fear puncturing her stomach into more violent rhythms.

She was prepared to be sick. As she raised her hand over her mouth, the soft sound captured his attention and he turned to face her. She gasped—the contraption on his head hid most of his face, but most intently, his mouth. His breathing came out in wired gulfs that reminded her of a familiar sci-fi movie from whence she was a child; but she didn't say a word. She merely shook.

"You look quite pretty, my dear. Such nice clothing for a secondary teacher," he noted as she watched his eyes move over her.

Was she expected to speak? Her head was tilted back to gaze at him, but she didn't believe that even in an upright position her mind could grasp any stability. The dizziness that crept along her head hadn't stilled since she awakened.

"It's appropriate… to wear more formal clothes at work, I would think," she whispered. Her own voice was unfamiliar to her—so raspy and broken. Taking a moment to clear her throat, she also snared advantage of the opportunity to finally look away. So long as he was in her vision, he seemed more real than she could bear.

The great man chuckled and took a few steps towards her, which only caused her back to straighten and her eyes to squint shut. 'Please,' she thought to no one.

"And how is it on a teacher's salary one affords…" Her eyes were closed and he performed his movements so swift and silently that she squealed from appalling shock when she felt his finger trace the hem of her skirt, indicating its length.

"Such clothing," he finished softly. There was a tie of dark humour in the way he chuckled from her fear. The nauseous setting in her stomach seemed to expand; was she really going to hurl right here in front of company?

"My savings..." she murmured aimlessly. Of all the topics she expected to discuss, her clothing wasn't on that list. For the sake of her nerves, she willed her eyes to remain shut.

"Are you… will you shoot me?" she asked. Her body still quaked beside him, but she couldn't bother with the strength it would take to sit still.

Bane paused to laugh again. "Don't worry! I don't need to shoot you to kill you."

His tone was so light-hearted, as if he was consoling her from a mere fear of heights and not a threat. She finally lifted her eyelids and risked a glance at him. He was crouched down, hovering beside her frame on his heels. His body easily vacated her set comfort zone, and yet when her eyes were closed, she would have believed he was a few feet away.

"Oh, that's… that's very kind."

Bane chuckled again, but his eyes flickered to his men, who dispersed from their group as his eyes grazed over them. One by one they turned their backs and walked down a railed pathway. Two of them had bent down to retrieve the body of the man who'd assaulted her earlier. "I can easily snap your neck between my fingers," he assured her when he heard her drag her legs to her hips.

"That would be most… painful, wouldn't it?"

He nodded. "Incredibly," he agreed.

Her head twisted as she sought to view the running water beneath the platform they sat on. It wouldn't be too difficult to roll off the edge and into the murky river, but what waited beyond that drop? What if she floated down, simply to re-emerge in their sights again? Her stomach was knotted already with her worry, but when she speculated a means of escape, it only seemed to worsen the pain.

"Well, if I were to choose my method of death," she said in hopes of distracting her concerns, "I'd prefer to be drowned."

Bane's eyes flickered to watch the current as well. His eyebrow curved against his forehead as he considered her surprising statement. "That takes longer. It's not as painless as you'd think."

"Yes, but at the same time, there's a sense of peace and acceptance that drowning brings," Meg countered. She abandoned her gaze of the water to turn and face him again. He was now staring at her, his peculiar look revealing his interest towards her words.

"Time consuming, for you and me," he brushed off. "If I shoot you in the head, you'll be dead fast; it won't hurt if I hit it right there."

And very carefully, he lifted his arm and placed the tip of his index finger on her upper forehead, dead centre, nearly gracing her hairline.

How does one respond to such a vivid depiction of her fast-approaching demise? "But the mess…"

"The blood?" he asked her, perplexed once more by her choice of response. He removed his hand from her face and rested it on his knee. "Yes, there would be plenty of that."

"I wouldn't want that. When it came time to bury me, my brother wouldn't be able to see my face because of the damage," she explained. "That's what happened with my parents when they died; it was just… closed caskets."

"Don't think I'll take pity on you—everyone has lost a loved one; and I have killed many men," he said simply.

Her teeth came down on her lip as she gently gnawed against her flesh. "I wasn't… thinking that."

"Was their blood spilt in an alley?"

"No," she replied. She noticed him staring at what she was doing to her mouth and stopped. "A car crash downtown. Just a … careless driver. Accidental, but fatal."

"And that, my dear, is your own circumstance. Accidental, careless and fatal. Do not take it personally, for there's a greater purpose behind all of this. Removing untrustworthy ears is an unfortunate necessity."

Such an interesting way to phrase her death, she thought, but her eyes widened in alarm when he reached forward with his arm, having abandoned his knee. His hand opened and enclosed around her neck, gently, yet forceful.

"I shall grant you your dying wish—you will be drowned."

"Thank you," she murmured. Her eyes fell shut again; she could no longer stall him. It had been her longest prediction: death at a young age. The hopes, the desires, the goals that she'd focused so much of her time on seemed lost against her current of thought. Maybe she'd have made a suitable teacher for a younger age group, she chuckled to herself. Teenagers were greatly influenced by powerful figures, but her meagre disposition didn't spark the simplest of flare today. This great man… she suddenly came to the conclusion that perhaps Max Schulze was a member of his gang. He had such commanding influence; even she couldn't be bothered to fight against his word, and here she was, being dealt his grip of death.

"Bane," called a soft voice.

The warmth his hand provided promptly deserted her neck, and she found her eyes open once more in alarm. Was this help?

"The address wasn't what we wanted, but I did find something."

"You're interrupting me, Barsad."

"You might need the, uh, German woman. Pavel he's… vacated our sites again."

"He isn't German." For the first time, Meg noticed the impatience that seemed to breach his voice. Every word he'd uttered before was as if it was pre-meditated and laced with only careless emotion. The tone now… her shaking was much more paramount than if he'd shouted profanities or confessed true anger.

"I understand," Barsad said. "But the trace of his last address—the notes, they are in German. And you killed our last fluent speaker."

"Then we shall find another one," Bane said simply. His eyes flickered to the anxious expression on the woman's face and he chuckled.

"Are you trying to suggest I keep her alive?"

"She… isn't our target in this," Barsad said. Meg wasn't surprised that he seemed to be selecting his words with great consideration, but her eyes could only watch Bane as he stared down at her. "Archam informed me she had a brother; her cooperation wouldn't be difficult."

"I don't think she'd be very difficult with or without leverage," Bane mused as he noted the return of her trembling. Never in his life had someone shaken as much as she did—he didn't see it as a compliment, but her earlier speech still intrigued him.

"Well?" he asked her.

Well, what? Her eyebrows kneaded together; how did this happen again? How was she being solicited to help another villain?

"Yes," she said anyway. That was probably the wisest answer; as peaceful as her earlier prospect of drowning seemed, the sudden desire to live recharged from within her core. Perhaps there was a way out of all of this in the future.

"Take her, Barsad. She shall be your responsibility."

"Yes," the man noted. He approached Meg with slow steps, and even in his shrunken stature when compared to Bane, Meg's constant trembling was becoming a concrete characteristic of her being. However, the fear that clearly resided in the girl didn't hinder her from obeying; she gripped onto Barsad's shoulders and he lifted her onto her feet. She worried for a moment if Bane could see up her skirt, but he too had quickly joined them upright.

"You will see me in the morning, _chiquilla_. We'll be going on a little trip."

The only acknowledgement to his words was the concerned stare that masked over her face as Barsad led her away. Chiquilla… she'd never heard of it before. It was probably Spanish or Portuguese, she thought. Maybe it was some soft, frightened animal—that was an appropriate description at least.

The railed pathway the men had taken before was much sturdier than she'd anticipated. Although the drop into the water still tempted her distress, she wasn't nearly as coiled as when Bane was near her. In fact, the further she was taken from him, the more manageable breathing appeared to happen. Ever her trembling had decreased significantly.

It wasn't until they had reached solid ground again and ventured down several tunnels that Barsad twisted her against the brick wall. His one hand gripped her chin and he shoved her head against the stone while his other hand reached for the gun he'd strapped to his side.

"I spared your life," he leaned in to whisper against her ear. "Bane would never have kept you alive if I hadn't suggested it. If you make any means to escape, I will be the one to shoot you in the head. Don't let my act of mercy end in death for both of us."

Meg nodded and trembled against the close proximity of his body. "I won't leave… I won't. For my b-brother."

"Yes, for him. We will kill him, too, if we must."

"No! No, you won't need to. I swear it; I'll translate anything you need. I don't care if you blow up a country, just don't hurt him."

Barsad pulled away from her. His brows were still furrowed, but she didn't see any trace of anger on his face. "Bane will kill you if you don't provide any use for him. It doesn't matter if you're a woman; he doesn't differentiate between people. Remember that."

"Yes," she promised. "I will. I know; just do everything you say."

"Everything _Bane_ says," he corrected her. "His word is the only one you must worry about."

She found herself nodding again. "Right. Bane… yep. I'll listen."

The man's features started to soften and he relinquished his grip on her chin. "I'll take you to your room. You'll be woken up in the morning when it's time to go."

"Go where exactly?"

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "Wherever Bane leads us."


	3. Chapter 3: Russian Baking

**Author's Note:** This was beta'd by a very close friend of mine, so I find I love this chapter intensely more than the others. It's the first time in years someone either than myself has actually proof-read my stories, so I'm relieved for the fresh touch!

Several reviews have excitedly noted my choice of characterization for Meg—that's intentional. Her reaction to her near-death experience is simply because, as a highly paranoid and frightful person, the preparation for death almost calmed her. She knew it was coming, so there was no need to fear the inevitable. xD

I'm also honoured by the comments about Bane's characterization! I've spent many, many years reading on Bane, but taking him from the Nolan-verse worried me. I've seen Dark Knight Rises only twice, though I'm thinking of going for a third time; I'm pleased my memory hasn't betrayed me as of yet!

Thank you all so, so much! As you can tell by my frequent updates, I'm having the grandest time writing this story, and I'm happy to share it with all of you!

Much love,

Krys

Chapter Three: Russian Baking and a Little Thanks

There is peace within the darkness; absent of our most reliant sense it reveals new borders to explore. The scent of water, polluted yet offering such a crisp flavour; the taste of the air, moist and fumed with dry vacancy; the sound caused by dripping, of boots clipping along the wet pavements as the guards make their patrols; and the grated touch of the thin matted cot that separates her from the coldness of the floor. Every twist wrenches a cry from the weak springs, and every breath she quakes emerges hollow and shaken. There is fear—ever abundant fear in her current abode.

And her abode was darkness. Darkness summons our fear; a fear of the concealed unknown, of predators lurking in the shadows. Despite the same disadvantage to both parties, it's a weapon against the weak, the small-spirited. Not all villains are strong, and not all potential victims bear this vulnerability; but she is weak. She isn't a friend that can cling to its protection—she is but a marked object waiting to be targeted by her captors. The thought spurred her to tears once more.

Crying in the dark, as revealed, only heightens the sound and portrays the fear she mustn't let show.

Unable to coerce her body to stem the flow of tears, sleep was unable to grace Meg's mind, but she hadn't expected it to. Instead she focused on something else. There were matters concerning her that she wanted to address, but wasn't capable of asking. What about her job? Did they not want her to at least call in and lie? And her brother—poor Paxton; she'd rather lie and tell him she couldn't bear the trials of parenthood than have him worry she was missing.

In the morning when Bane called for her, she hoped to find the courage to ask him. Even if he slapped her around or shot her, which she irrationally believed was very possible, she needed to at least raise those two questions—if only to speak to Paxton once more—before she entirely sealed herself to his cause—whatever that was. That raised another question: dare she ask what his cause was? Bane was confusing, at times both dominating yet gentle; his very presence threatened to overwhelm her with.

And it was absurd how her thoughts suddenly flitted over to his image. It wasn't common for someone to burn into her musings so easily, yet his physical anatomy was well-defined in her mind, as was the effervescent manner of his speech. And that mask… she'd never seen such a contraption. Was it to help him breathe? She could only imagine the handicap it brought—imagine trying to eat or kiss someone when you had to remove that at times.

Such silly thoughts, she realized. He wouldn't hesitate to murder her. She managed to engage him in conversation—a most unexpected conversation—but nothing had deterred him in the slightest from attempting to take her life. And then there was Barsad… why had he saved her? There was a reason behind that as well, and the amount of debt she'd already sanctioned between Bane and his men greatly concerned her. They needed a German speaker—well, that was simple. She was easily fluent and she could care less for their motives at this point. If it was only her life at stake, perhaps that would change her feelings, but Paxton was involved. Oh, she never should have said his name in front of the gunman!

The fault of her situation and the threat against her brother rested on her shoulders. Every shred of warmth seemed to sparsely vacate her body. That, too, reminded her of Bane, simply because his brief touch had bathed her in such a glow. She had expected to feel a frigid sensation along her neck, as cold was generally accompanied by death, but his touch had been hot, scalding against her expectations.

"I don't understand anything," she whispered aloud.

Indeed, nothing was familiar anymore.

For hours she poured over thoughts of Paxton, ideas on how to broach her questions to Bane, and even the great man's intentions. Occasionally, she'd pause from her critical thinking to reflect on Bane's impact on her and then the shivering would commence again. Her current nightmare brought upon exhaustion she'd never experienced before; it wasn't the same as pulling an all-nighter to finish a mid-term paper. This was true danger to her being, and once again, she was in tears.

That was how Barsad found her when he went to collect her in the early hours of the morning. The cot which was small for even the teenagers of their group seemed large beneath her frame. Her arm was strung over her face, her body vibrating as she gulped back tears; well, it hadn't been to his surprise. If anything, he was impressed that he hadn't heard any complaints from the patrols—at least she'd kept herself quiet.

"Come now," he murmured quietly and racked his knuckles against the archway into her tiny room. The brick wall absorbed most of the sound, but his voice drew her attention and she sat up.

"Do you know where we're going yet?" she asked. Barsad moved to the edge of her bed and extended a hand to help her to her feet. He shook his head in reply but as she rose, he gently grabbed her wrist.

"Last night… you were graced by mercy. But today is something new; if you do anything to jeopardize your life, I won't step in."

"I won't," she said. And then she frowned as she realized what he'd said. "B-Barsad?"

He glanced at her. "Yes?"

"Why did you… you… s-step in yesterday?"

She watched him as he smiled and shook his head. "It felt wrong to me, to let someone so terrified of life perish so quickly in death."

Nothing had prepared her for that statement; the numbness that settled over her chilled every sensor, every muscle, and once again, her body was in trembles. Someone so terrified of life… she'd never heard anyone say that before. It felt cruel, despite the light tone he'd spoken it with. A voice called in the back of her head that tried to rationalize with his phrase and reveal its appropriate appeal to her persona, but the nausea—the tormenting sensation that always arrived upon her stress—returned.

"I think I'm going to throw up," she gasped. Barsad didn't view it as a joke, and he managed to shuffle to the side quickly enough to not obstruct her path as she reached the bucket tucked away in the corner. Her body heaved violently as the few contents of her stomach spilled into the container. Between each convulsion she cried out; not because it was painful, but because every resolve of hers was breaking. She just wanted to cry, curl up right here, and disappear.

"You need to hurry—we can't keep him waiting."

And reality, such a powerful force, it sets in and slaps you, hindering the ease brought on by quitting. She heaved one last time, a finale to fully empty her stomach, before she finally lifted herself from her knees.

"Feeling better?"

She didn't answer him, just moved over to his side. Her neck dangled low, and her long, flat russets of hair curtained her face from his view. The brown strands clung to her cheeks as she tried to wipe the tears that stained them. "I'm ready."

"Sure you are," he said. But he clucked his tongue and proceeded to lead her to Bane's quarters. She did her best to freshen up her appearance; she could only imagine the smeared makeup caking her eyelids as well as the matted state of her hair. She should have cut it off—having long hair was a potential death trap, anyway.

"Good morning, Ms. Willard," Bane welcomed as she and Barsad entered his view. It wasn't the office area she'd been in before—the computers weren't there, nor the presence of water. Instead there was a small table placed in the centre of the room with several chairs resting beside it. She quickly sat down at one and gave him a curt nod. She needed to find the strength to raise her own questions before he overwhelmed her.

"I trust you didn't sleep last night," he mused.

Finally, she found her voice. "No," she admitted. "I had… plenty to think about."

"Before we leave, I want you to take a look at this."

Meg accepted the photograph he placed in front of her, but she nearly vomited again. "P-Paxton?"

It was her brother, asleep on his bed in the disarrayed area of his room. She could see Barsad at the edge of the photo, recognizing his unique attire. "Oh, god," she whispered.

"He wasn't harmed, my dear," he assured her. "Consider this your binding contract."

"Give me a pen and I'll sign," she groaned. There was nothing worse than having this in hand—knowing that they had access to her dearest brother. "P-Please, let me call him. T-Tell him I'm at least leaving. I can't s-stand to have him worry over me."

"I can assure you, Gisel, that you will never be with him again. So long as you provide your use to us, you will live; once that ends, I will kill you."

The fact that he knew her real name didn't haunt her; she merely nodded. "I d-don't care. I m-mean, I understand. Please, let me tell him that I'm gone on my own t-terms. You wouldn't want… a trail, w-would you?"

"Do as you wish," Bane dismissed. "But Barsad will accompany you. One word out of term and you and this boy will both be shot."

"When can I leave?" she asked earnestly. He glanced down at her and took a step towards her, only to watch her trembling appear.

"Not this morning—we have business. Barsad will take you after."

"Where are we going?" She knew her questioning was becoming incessant, but the words wouldn't stop pouring from her mouth.

Bane, however, didn't respond to her. He released his hands from their grip on his peculiar vest and pulled out a coat to wrap around his shoulders. "Come," he said. "It will just be the three of us."

Her stomach tightened, but she could feel Barsad behind her, which again, made her frown. When Bane moved around her, it was so silent she never noticed the intrusion; Barsad, who was much smaller, was very apparent to her body.

She really didn't understand—what was it about Bane that made him so incredible?

"I'm c-coming," she murmured when Barsad nudged her shoulder, and without further hesitance, she rose to her feet. Wedged between Bane and Barsad, she took the time to try and control her shaking. It didn't stand for her to act as a petrified mouse, and as they moved over the pavement, she was cautious to continue avoiding any cracks.

The trail through the sewers was long; she'd expected them to surface at several man-holes, but Bane ignored the alcoves and continued forward. He must have had the blueprints of the tunnels memorized, because he never needed to pause. Meg was used to taking a taxi just to go to the grocery store—the ache in her calves told her that not only was she in poor shape, but that the pain wasn't going to subside any time soon. At the very least, she was no longer trembling—physical activity, albeit pathetically minor, proved to distract her thoughts.

"You're in poor shape," Bane noted an hour later. "This is but a walk."

"I wasn't really the track kid at school," she sighed as she wiped at some of the sweat on her forehead. Humidity was beginning to settle in the enclosed space, and they hadn't stopped since she stood up from the table.

"Track is much more vigorous than walking," Bane reminded her. She groaned to herself; it hadn't been what she meant, but she couldn't help wishing to avoid discussion on her pitiful physical state.

"I'm really lazy," she finally admitted.

She had absolutely no evidence, but she liked to imagine that the great man smiled.

"We're almost there," Barsad said a few minutes later. With the limit in sight, it seemed to be easier for her to move. She couldn't help but feel dread that later on she'd need to walk back, but there wasn't a single inkling of her that wanted to voice her complaints. She would walk on coals of fire if it would appease them; she'd deal with this, because they terrified her.

The man hole they ended up surfacing from was one tucked away in an alley, making it easier to disguise their arrival. Bane had Barsad move up first, then he simply grabbed her waist and lifted her so she didn't need to touch the steps. She thought about thanking him, but when the great man himself emerged, her voice once again caught in her throat.

"This way," Barsad uttered. He appeared to be leading the way, though Meg couldn't help but consider it was more for her sake—Bane seemed aware of everything, and as they left the alley, she watched from her peripheral vision as he pulled up the hood of his jacket.

Being on the streets of Gotham didn't panic her as much as it would have the day before—the night in the sewers had, for the time being, at least made her grateful for the fresher air. Although she didn't recognize the venue they had led her to, she assumed it had to be at least near the school—that is, if they were heading to the address of Max Schulze. There was a possibility of flight that her mind suggested, but she couldn't compel her body to move in a pace that kept up to Bane's steps, let alone consider taking off on him and have him murder her brother.

All of the walking in the sewers had at least covered the great distance towards their destination; within minutes, the three of them were walking up the steps to a harrowed apartment building. Barsad opened the door for the two of them while Bane held it open for her to enter before him. She still couldn't manage to thank him, but she gave her head a little twitch that slightly resembled a nod as she passed him. Barsad led them up only two flights of stairs before they ventured down a hallway desecrated with graffiti and littered with garbage along the sides. The paint peeled sporadically along the walls, and the doors were a bright orange that reminded her of prison uniforms.

They stopped outside of room 205. Bane merely twisted the knob and opened the door as if it were any other, except that Meg had heard the squeal as the lock broke. She merely swallowed and turned her focus to the living room.

"This is… uh, nice," she said. The two men ignored her as they moved inside. She wasn't exactly sure what Bane was looking for—it became obvious within minutes that Max Schulze wasn't there, and hadn't been for quite some time. Rotting pizza boxes lay discarded at her feet, and there was a pungent scent emitting from the kitchen she could only hope was garbage and not decaying flesh.

When Bane left them to go down a hallway, she turned to Barsad. "Is it all right if I use the washroom?"

"Leave the door open."

She frowned to herself, but didn't protest him. It wasn't difficult to find the bathroom, and the condition of it quenched her ill feeling of leaving the door open—at least she'd be able to leave without touching the handle.

The bath tub… well, she wasn't quite sure the last time someone used it, but considering how there were two full garbage bags currently resting in the tub, she didn't think hygiene had been important to the tenant. The toilet was, at the least, not harbouring any excrement, but she still went ahead and washed her hands and arms twice; thank god there had at least been soap.

It was then that her eyes finally met with the mirror, and upon instinct, she winced. She wasn't used to seeing herself in such a poorly-kept appearance, and once again, she turned on the faucet. It was nice to wash her face and remove all of the grime that agitated her pores. The makeup held quite the resistance, but eventually, it too washed off. She ran her fingers through her hair and collected the hair-tie that lay knotted at one of the ends. After she secured her hair in a fitted bun, the least she could agree on was that she was appeared human again.

"Are you finished grooming?"

She squealed and turned around, despite the fact that she knew it was Bane. She didn't expect to ever adjust to his silent movements, and as he stood there, blocking her escape, she nervously wiped her soaked hands on her skirt.

"Did… did you find what you were l-looking for?" she asked. Her timid nature still hadn't depleted, and as Bane watched her, the trembling began all over again.

"This." Bane presented her an envelope; it was bent, the surface blank, but she opened it to find a document inside. The German hand-writing was messy and erratic; however, she managed to read over the contents, enunciating it out loud.

"It's… it's just a…"

"A what?"

"Well," she said, and her eyes flickered back to him, "it's a recipe for… baking some kind of dessert. R-Russian, by the looks of it. But there isn't anything important—not even a name."

"Your eyes are not trained to read what it's telling you," Bane rebuffed. He took the letter from her hands and carelessly glanced over the scribbling. "You will translate it once we return—I will teach you how to read it."

"I… I think I can read!" she retorted. Immediately her hands went over her mouth, though Bane simply chuckled and reached for her shoulder. Hurriedly, she threw herself back into the counter, and accidentally slammed her head against the mirror. She heard the glass break and collapse to the sink as well as tangle in her hair, but she burst into tears when she saw a few droplets of blood trickle down her arm. "O-Oh my gosh!" she squealed. Bane was already pulling her away from the counter, and as she noticed the split pattern now disrupting her view in the mirror, she felt even more nauseous than from the blood.

"That's… that's s-seven more y-years of bad luck," she groaned.

Bane tilted his head at her and brushed off the few pieces of glass that clung to the top of her head before giving her a gentle shove out of the room.

"You seem to think I'm going to kill you if you so much as glance at me for too long." The tone of his voice hadn't abandoned the light-heartedness he seemed to attach to each of his words, but she wouldn't allow it to dissuade her and have her abandon her guard. By all accounts, he could kill her at any moment.

"But your superstitious paranoia humiliates you—for if it was at least exaggerated, I would find it amusing. That you truly believe this… my dear, how have you lasted so long in this world?"

"Can I… go to my apartment n-now?" she meekly asked him in hopes of turning the subject. There was no reason to discuss her fears—after all, they were surely endless at this point.

Bane reached for his hood again to pull over his face. His hand rested on her upper back as he led her in front of him back into the living room.

"Barsad, you will take Miss Willard to her apartment where she may retrieve some of her personal possessions. I want you back at the base in two hours."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you," she finally told him. Bane said nothing as he left the apartment, but for the first time since she'd met him, she felt grateful.

"M-Maybe I do need to learn how to read," she thought aloud.

Barsad didn't respond to her comment. Instead, he grabbed her arm and coerced her out of the apartment. "We'll take a taxi to your apartment. Your brother should have left for school already."

The sadness she'd forgotten for only a moment penetrated her again—she wouldn't even have her proper goodbye.


	4. Chapter 4: Goodbye

**Warning: **_Intense Feels Ahead!_

Sweet sin, guys, I'm so sorry for the delay! I just moved into my apartment, and it took some time to readjust to things, and then I started up Camp NaNoWriMo and… yeah. But I finally finished this today, my darling friend edited it, and so you can all just go enjoy it. _Enough from me!_

Thank you, creeklings!

* * *

Chapter Four: Good-bye

Losing someone is a separation often greeted with resistance. It's understanding that everything that remains will simply be memory and the future is now blurred, rejecting former expectations and distilling the familiar. The negative connotations attached to that person leisurely slip away from concern, a morphed being replaced in its stead. Perfections sprout along these damaged memories, instigating a worse pain as we attempt to move on.

So foolish; how difficult it is to abandon the past and venture forth.

Meg had no words available for Barsad, though she indeed felt grateful for his kindness. They'd waited outside the building for only five minutes before she suggested he call the cab company. Having had the number memorized, it wasn't any trouble for him to do so, though he'd walked off a few steps—making sure to have her in his sights—to do so. When he returned only a moment later, a frown had formed on her face again.

"Why did you walk off?"

"We don't want you to know any of the addresses. It's not our goal to have you escape."

She shook her head. "I… I couldn't. I promised you—I know it's d-difficult for you to believe, but I won't escape. Not… not if it means… harming Paxton."

Barsad paid little interest to her words and focused on the streets, analysing the few people who walked it. She herself was wondering how he expected her not to figure out where they were when she could easily make track of it in the taxi. But by the time it had indeed arrived, Meg had received the rules of their public integration. Barsad opened the door for her, and despite the friendly smile from the driver, she turned her head away.

"Take us to Hardy Street, on 22nd Avenue," her companion requested. Before the driver had even pressed down on the gas pedal, Barsad suddenly hovered over her.

"I'm not stupid." A solemn look evolved along his lips and he reached forward to stroke a few escaped strands of hair. "This is going to be a fast cab ride."

She frowned and twisted her head towards the seat, though his hand merely followed. "I'm not sure… I kn-know what you mean," she murmured.

There was no verbal response; rather, Barsad took the initiative to trap her lips against his. The crushing weight of his body sealed her against the seat, and she couldn't twist her head away from his grip. She felt trapped, terrified as she did her best to struggle; he may not have been Bane, but his strength still surpassed hers. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, but not a sound was made.

Meanwhile, the cabbie ignored them and continued driving.

Meg wanted to cry out for his attention. More than anything she wanted to scream and try to alert the ignorant driver about her assault, but the thought of what Bane would do to her—what Barsad could do to her—kept her silent. The nausea had returned in such a violent way, she almost felt too sick to vomit.

Barsad's free hand found itself along her thigh, and try as she might to fold her legs, his fingers crept along her flesh in an enticement to open them. No, this couldn't have been real, she thought. Why was this—of all things, this—happening?

"Here ya go," the cabbie announced some time later. Barsad pulled himself away from her with such calm ease and retrieved a crumpled twenty dollar bill from his pocket. "I don't want the change," he murmured before ushering her out. She couldn't see around her—the dizziness enveloping her current state of mind made it difficult as she tried to clamber out of the vehicle. Even when Barsad's arm hooked around her waist and hoisted her out, the ability to stand properly proved difficult.

"Sorry about that," he muttered as the taxi disappeared from view. "I couldn't really put a bag over your head."

Perhaps he'd meant it to be funny, but the comment only caused her tears to burst from the pressured vault she fought so hard to hold them in. "Maybe this is so f-funny to you, but I have t-tried my best to make it c-clear to you that I have no intention of running away!"

Her eyes spotted her apartment, just a mere twenty feet down the street. "I have s-someone I love v-very much at risk; don't you understand? I will n-not jeopardize his life for m-my own! I love him! I'm n-not scared t-to die for him. P-Please, s-stop trying to… to… to t-test me! I can't take this!"

And finally, she pulled up her hands to cover her mouth as she succumbed to the sobs quaking within her body. The tragic and unexpected death of her parents had left her in a similar manner of pain, but she realized that this was surely the worst. Never mind the terror Bane instigated her mind with, but the threat of Paxton, Barsad's "casual" assault… she would have welcomed him to kill her, just to make it stop.

"Please," she pleaded a moment later. "P-Please."

The soft approach of his footprints caused her to pull away her hands and move them in front of her, almost pleadingly as they rested in defence. But Barsad simply grazed the side of her shoulder with his hand and gave her a gentle shove in her home's direction.

"I don't think you will escape," he whispered. "The day we trust you will come—so long as you work hard on your behalf. We can't waste any more time; let's go."

Oh, god, how she wanted to slip to her knees and simply cry. That was it? Yes, it hadn't even been 24 hours, but under the circumstances, she simply couldn't subject time to its normal intervals. Ever since she'd met Bane, she'd felt so emotionally exhausted, as if it had been draining her for years. The clear nature of what was at stake didn't miss her—she knew she couldn't make a single mistake in their presence, or everything—and Paxton truly was everything to her at this point—would be lost.

"I will prove it to you," she whispered, taking a step forward. "But you're a monster."

"Yeah. I am," Barsad agreed. Had it not been for her current loathing of the man, she would have given him the slightest of sympathy, for his eyes seemed burdened with misery as they shared a short look with her before venturing back to the direction of her apartment.

What Meg needed to accept, and it was hard to think in such a cynical way, but these men lacked empathy for others, and she couldn't afford to waste any more of her emotion on them—she had such little available at the moment.

The street blurred around her as she stepped in front of Barsad to finally lead him the way. It didn't matter to her that he was already aware of her address, because this was her home—this was her journey, her mission, and she was going to take charge of the small opportunity she had. But with each step, the sound of her heels clipping was absorbed from her consciousness; the soft breeze of the wind was lost on her—she could hardly see, barely breathe, as she thought of what she was about to do.

There was no turning back. Bane had sealed her fate, and she had acquiesced to his terms.

So why did she foolishly try to think of some means to escape? To slip through Barsad's fingers, find her brother, and flee to Germany where they would be safe? Why was it that the temptation was almost stronger than her rationality?

"Oh," she whispered aimlessly as her hand grazed the knob of her door. It didn't take any conscious effort to find her way back home, but even that thought—to consider this place as her home—made the nausea bubble stronger.

She didn't have her key, so she bent over and retrieved a spare from the potted plant resting on the front step. Opening the lock gave her no difficulty, and as she stepped into the furnished foyer, she came to terms that this would be the last time she'd be there.

The room was lit from the morning glow; the red painted walls greeted her warmly as she walked on the hardwood floors. She knew Barsad's men had been there the previous night, but there were no scuttle marks on her flooring—well, she could appreciate that at the least. Her eyes flickered to the shoe rack by the door, and her stomach knotted when she noticed that Paxton's shoes were still there. He always took his Nike's to school—it had been a different pair last year, but he didn't shift through brands.

He was home—her brother was in that condo.

"I'm going to go upstairs," she murmured. She didn't often remove her own shoes, but there was no point in carrying the heels any longer—from now on, she required sneakers as well. Her feet tip-toed up the steps, hoping that she could sneak into Paxton's room before he caught her and raised Barsad's attention. There was no point in attempting to escape with him, but she had the opportunity to give him a final goodbye.

The second landing was just as illuminated as the downstairs. She loved the morning, when the glow was merely inviting rather than hot. The beige walls were decorated by old oak furniture she'd brought home from Germany after her grandmother's passing; it was something she was surely going to miss.

Paxton's room was just off to the left of the bathroom. Her feet clenched against the floor as she made her way towards it, trying to think of the words she didn't want to say. Paxton's door was ajar, and she could see him putting on a shirt as she made her way towards him. He was running late, but for once, she didn't see the need to scold him.

"Hey," she whispered once she reached his frame. Paxton whirled around. She could see his mouth open, preparing to shout his surprise, but her finger was already pressed to her lips, and she indicated with her index finger the downstairs. "I have a guest."

"What the hell, Meg? Where the hell have you been?"

"I'm sorry," she said, and stepped forward to hold him tightly in her arms. "So much… so much has happened. I just… I needed to see you before I left."

"Left? No, Meg, what are you talking about?"

He pulled away from her embrace, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. She wanted that—she loved how angry he looked. It would make everything easier if she did that. Suddenly, she didn't care if Barsad came up—in fact, that would make it better.

"I can't do this anymore." Her voice was emptied of the typical softness she spoke with. Oh, yes, she wanted to cry, but for this moment, it was imperative that she lose all feeling, all love, and all remorse for what she needed to do. "It was too much of a hassle for me to give up my life for you."

The apology, the explanation her brother had expected was lost; he stared at his sister, his eyes now widened. "W-What?"

"I've met someone," she said. "A while ago. I didn't think we'd get this far, but yesterday, after school, he surprised me with an engagement ring. I don't want this life, Paxton. I don't want to take care of you. Hell, I could hardly handle my first day of school."

"Wait, what? It was only one day… you can't just give it up! And what guy? Since when do you date anyone?"

"You don't know me as well as you think," she interrupted. She wondered if Barsad was listening—she hoped if he was, he'd at least go along with what she had to say. "You're a hassle, Paxton. Mom and dad sent you off to summer boot camp how many times? I have an opportunity to make my own life—without anyone's influence but my own. Why would I let it go by for the sake of you?"

If she could choose, she would rather die on the spot. If God would smite her where she stood, she could have died and spared the boy any further abuse. Instead, she listened as Barsad's steps creaked up the staircase, his boots clamping down softly on the hardwood floors.

She had to keep going—she had to _break_ him.

"I'm going to pack my things, and then I'm going to leave. You can rot in foster services for all I care—but this is it."

For the first time in the last 24 hours, she didn't feel like crying. She didn't feel fear, nor did she experience any nausea. As she stood there, watching her brother's expression flicker through anger and anguish, she only had one, simple thought: when Bane eventually killed her, she deserved no mercy.

Paxton was having difficulty processing the words—she could tell, not just by his looks, but the way his fingers twisted and how he seemed to reach at her, trying to restore a sense of balance between them. But she had tipped the scales, shoved him to the floor and scattered any sense of normalcy away from him. She'd never behaved in such a way—and yet at the same time, it was so easy to fake it.

"Please," he breathed out, and a familiar sense of pain jabbed at her chest when she noticed the pain attached with his words. "I don't want… I don't want you to go."

No, no, no, he couldn't. He should have yelled at her, cried out that she was a bitch and stormed off; he should have left with the hope that she was merely just words and that when he returned after school, she'd be there, waiting with a huge apology and a large, steaming supper on the table. He wasn't supposed to beg—he wasn't supposed to cry.

Meg could have failed at that moment, had Barsad not joined them and placed his hand on her lower back. It startled her, but she managed to remain rooted to the floor; she was grateful for the opportunity to look away from the helpless eyes of her brother.

"Barsad, I'm taking care of it," she said pleasantly, as though she was merely picking up groceries from the store.

"I can tell," he responded just as lightly. The look they exchanged between them was one of understanding, and suddenly, despite his horrendous behaviour earlier, she was relieved to have him here.

"This is him? Meg, I've never even see him before! You can't just run away—"

She interrupted him. "I can do whatever I want," she reminded him coolly. "Now, if you have any hope for a future outside of prison, I suggest you get to school. Stay behind if you wish; I'll be gone within the hour."

With Barsad's gentle guidance, she turned away from him and walked down the hall. There was no dizziness to suspend her, and she made it into her room without any hesitance. Barsad watched from the hallway as she found a duffel bag from her closet and began packing appropriate items for her stay—no more skirts or heels, she realized. Instead, she piled in jeans, t-shirts, a few of her favourite blouses in case she was able to leave the sewers again. Afterwards, she ventured into the bathroom and collected some of her most essential hygiene products.

All the while Meg battled to resist the temptation of consider what she'd just done, the pain she'd just left him with. It would have been less selfish to have just disappeared completely, without as much as a trace of her whereabouts than to beat him down with the brunt of her words. Never in her life had she said something as venomous as that to even the likes of a bully—but there had been not an inkling of hesitation when it came to Paxton, whom she loved more than herself.

If Barsad or Bane couldn't see how serious she was at this point, then she could think of no other way to assert her servitude.

The packing didn't take an hour—it only took about ten minutes. Paxton had tried coming in to reason with her a second time, but she beckoned to Barsad, who stepped in and locked the door.

"Is it okay if I take a shower?" she sighed once they were alone. Barsad sent her a nod and she returned to her bathroom once again.

Stripping out of the clothes covered with grime, sweat and tears felt wonderful, and the hot water that cascaded down her skin once she pulled the knob was even better—but none of it could suppress the extent of what she'd just done, and it was in that enclosed piece of privacy that she slid to her knees and sobbed.

* * *

The table she'd sat at earlier that morning was covered with stacks of documents. From her brief examination, she spotted several different languages among them, especially the familiar German scripture. But the words were blurred as she tried to make sense of them, and she merely sat down at her seat as she waited for Barsad to check in with Bane.

She frowned as she tried to remember what happened, but nothing registered. Every time Paxton tried to surface, she buried him with whatever nonsense she could grasp first—song lyrics, favourite movie lines, old "almost" boyfriends that had treated her like dirt throughout college; anything to suppress him.

Sometimes, though, it's best to leave a bit of yourself behind when stepping into the mind, as when Bane placed his hand on her shoulder—his unexpected presence mixed with his surprising touch—prompted her to scream and fly off the chair in a hysterical stupor. Her body slammed into the concrete, and as she winced from the dull pain throbbing in her lower hip, she risked a glance at the great man. Bane, vestless in only his muscled, massive glory and cargo pants, watched her with a raised eyebrow and what she could only weakly describe as a bemused expression.

"You scared me!" she gasped. She glanced down at herself and winced a second time as the stinging sensation in her leg heightened for a moment. "Aaaah, I didn't mean to do that…"

Once again her body dipped towards the floor as her hands reached for her injury, pressing down on it in a means to stop the flow of pain. It didn't work, but she felt soothed and started to gently massage her hands over it. She feared to make contact with Bane's eyes, not from her foolishness, but from the uncertainty, the impossible that possessed him and left her unable to predict anything from him. So when Bane reached down, grasping firmly yet not roughly on her upper arm and heaved her to her feet, she was confused as to how to respond.

"You are… the q-quietest man in the world," she blurted out.

His eyebrow remained arched. "And you're quite noisy for someone so meek."

Meg nodded in agreement—hell, she couldn't disagree with that, and leaned over to peek over his side, again noticing the documents. "I saw some German papers… d-do you want me to translate them?" she asked. It was best to leave the topic of her reaction in the midst; embarrassment aside, she needed to earn her rite of passage and prove that she wasn't going to flee from him.

Paxton was gone now—even if she managed to survive this, she could never find a way to explain what happened, nor could she ever reveal that those words—as cruel and malicious as they were—had derived from some kind of truth in her, and she couldn't—absolutely could not—interpret that ever.

"Yes," Bane answered her, pulling her out of her thoughts. This time, she wasn't nearly as startled, merely jumping slightly against his hand.

"Okay." He released her and she moved over to the chair, which she'd tipped over during her fall, and placed it back in its upright position before sitting on it. She waited a moment for Bane to hand out the documents, but when he still stood with his back facing her, she slowly reached forward and began thumbing through them, pushing them into piles in front of her.

"Barsad informs me that your brother was at your home when you went to collect your things. Did you say your goodbye?"

She paused before settling into a frown. Why was it relevant that Paxton was there? She hadn't made any sort of plans—Barsad was present or at least in ear-shot for most of her conversation.

Still, she wasn't going to ignore Bane, so she simply shrugged it off. "I did."

He didn't say anything in response, and once more she was overcome with paranoia. Reaching for the strands of hair that curtained her face, she tucked them behind her ear and courted another glance of him, to which he still hadn't moved. Frustrated with herself—and for him not saying anything—she turned her chair to face him.

"You've… lost someone, right? Unexpectedly, I imagine?"

Only the low breathing cackled from his mask answered her, but as he hadn't made any signal to stop her, she decided to continue. "That's what it was like," she murmured. "My, uh, parents—I told you about them. They died unexpectedly. And that's what I did for my brother. I killed myself for him. Because the pain is great and it's torturous, but at least I gave him understanding. I left him… with closure."

She sighed and played with the edge of a piece of paper, crinkling it with her thumb. It was odd how when he stood there, his scarred yet full skin facing her, that she read him like a blank confessional. A wall to leave her message on, and then walk away. "When you break someone like that, with your words and your abandonment, you give them the opportunity to hate you. To fill with guilt, anger and regret; but you also leave the proper means to move on. If I had just disappeared, he would never understand. He would never forget. Eventually… eventually, the feelings he has right now, they'll disappear."

She smiled and brought her knees up to her chest, tucking her feet in on the small surface of the chair. "Eventually, he'll move on. It'll take a long time, but there will come a day where I'll just be a nasty memory; and I'm okay with that! He can be happy with someone else."

"You think it's that simple? To erase yourself from someone's life with you?" Bane finally turned to face her, and she saw something in his eyes; their hooded nature was no longer aroused with amusement and control, but she sensed that unfathomable pain they both identified with.

"I think it's better than the alternative," she whispered.

Bane scoffed. "It's selfish."

"I didn't say it wasn't!" she countered. Her eyes narrowed as the feelings, the ones she'd meant to bury and never let surface seemed to flood her throat. "What else can I do? You forced me into this position!"

"Don't justify your actions—typical of your people, to make excuses for the pain they execute."

"And what about you?" she inquired. Her eyebrow rose as a challenge. "What's all of this for—murdering and thieving? What justification have you slabbed it with?"

Bane's one step forward sealed the space between them, and as he glared down at her, the sensible fear she'd lost for only a moment scoured her thoughts and she quickly bowed her head. So quickly her anger subsided, and she watched as her body succumbed to its trembles.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. She wasn't sure if she meant it, but it was all she could think to say. Bane never struck her, despite how she wondered if he might; she just listened in silence as he vacated the room.

Loneliness: that was the worst accompaniment of the pain that came when you lost someone. As Meg sat at what she would later refer to as the Kitchen Desk, loneliness rested against her, an unwanted friend she couldn't push away.


End file.
